Vinton, Louisiana and the house that haunts me . . .

In 1988, I decided to move to Atlanta, Georgia. I had been in Denton, TX, for 6 years, and thought it was time to move along and try some place new and vibrant. So, I packed up the cats, the car, sent the movers on their way, and started a new life in Atlanta. It didn't take long to find a teaching job, and I liked being in the big city, so I thought things were good. Unfortunately, it didn't quite work out that way. The teaching job became a growing disaster, and I became seriously ill with Epstein-Barr Virus. I have never been so sick in my life!! It was terrible, and I was at a complete loss as to how I was going to continue functioning. Without a couple of wonderful friends there, and the support of my step-father, I don't think I would have.

The first year in Atlanta was fine, it was the following 6 months when things started to go bad. It wasn't just my illness either. It was an overall feeling. I was dating, I had friends, I liked driving in the mountains, going to shows in the city, etc., but something just wasn't right. It was in those last six months when I began having a recurring dream. It was one of those dreams that kept starting the same way, but each time I had it, more would be added. It wasn't until after I left Atlanta, or made the decision to leave, that the dream began to make sense to me. So here, I'll tell you the full dream:

Several people (maybe 5 others) and I are walking down a street together. It's a modern day street, black paved, but no sidewalks, so we're walking in the street. It's definitely a small town. The big trees form a canopy over the street. I'm feeling uncomfortable because everyone is trying to convince me to do something I don't want to do, and I'm being difficult about it. They all want to crash a party. Of course it's not just any party, as a dream would have it, it's a party during the Antebellum period. Not a dress up party, an ACTUAL party in the Antebellum period!! I don't want to go because, as I say, we're obviously NOT from the Antebellum period, so how are we supposed to get in. Then suddenly, we are in Antebellum clothing, and everyone says, "See, we'll be fine!" I still don't want to go, for fear that we'll be busted, but I give in.

The next thing I know, we are at the front door of the home where the party is, and the owner is welcoming us in. My friends (and I still have absolutely no idea who those people were!!) turn to the left after entering, and begin mingling and eating, but I am stopped by the owner. He's a sweet man. Older man, and he takes my hand and says, "You must be a friend of  . . . . " I have never known the name he says, but it was a female name, and as part of my awkward cover, I say, "Oh yes, I am." At that point, he takes me to the right, back in to the kitchen. The kitchen is from the 1930s, not the Antebellum period or modern day. I can still see the white tile counter top and back splash, the chrome faucet coming out of the wall above the large sink, the stove area behind me, and the large set of windows above the sink. At this point, the owner says, "I'm so pleased you're here. <Insert female name> would have been so happy to see you. Of course we buried her out there," as he points out the large window to a tree just at the bottom of a slope, "It was her favorite spot." At this point, I realize the girl I pretend to know is dead, and was the owners daughter!! As if I didn't feel bad enough crashing this party in the first place, I now feel HORRIBLE for pretending to know this sweet older man's dead daughter! Then he says, "Would you like to go out and see?" How can I refuse? So I go. I wake up just as we get to the small plot under the tree. I feel terrible, and just want to get out of there. There is also a man out tending to the leaves or grass, raking, and he looks at me as if he knows I don't belong.

That's the dream. I never had it again after leaving Atlanta. My step-father came, packed me up, and moved me back to Texas to go to grad school. I slowly regained my health, and when I did think about that dream, I assumed it was my gut telling me that I didn't belong in Atlanta any more than I belonged at that party, or pretending to know the dead daughter. Looking back on it, I thought it was a pretty cool dream, until . . . .

A couple of years later, I was going to New Orleans with some friends. My friend Arlene and I were in her little truck, and the other couple we were traveling with were in their car. The couple told us that they wanted to stop at a little hamburger place they knew about, which was just off the highway. We followed. That's when the dream became something completely different!!! As soon as we exited for Vinton, Louisiana, I began to feel sick at my stomach, but thought maybe I was just hungry. I got completely quiet, and kept gripping the door handle. I was riddled with anxiety as we drove down THE street from my dream!!! It was EXACTLY the street my "friends" and I walked down as they tried to convince me to go to the party. I felt worse and worse as we approached the hamburger place. Fortunately for me, it was closed! Good!! I just wanted out of there, but couldn't explain why. In fact, I still hadn't said anything. I knew Arlene was observing my behavior, and once, even asked if I was ok, but I think I just nodded. To head back to the highway, we went up the other end of the U-shaped road. Good, I thought. I don't have to go down that street again!! Well, I wasn't home free yet. At the end of that road, just as we turned right, was THE HOUSE!! It was EXACTLY the house from my dream! My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, and I felt sick. As we turned right, I saw a man in the back yard, raking leaves, under a tree at the bottom of a slope. Yes, same tree, same slope, etc. Once back on the highway, I was able to relax, breathe, and let go of the door handle. When she recognized that, Arlene turned to me and said, "Ok, what the hell was THAT all about??" She said I turned white as a ghost, and my reaction was really weird. So, I explained what happened.

From that point on, I avoided any contact with Vinton, La. Just the name gave me the creeps! However, On my recent trip to New Orleans in June, I had to drive past it on the highway. Of course now, I'm conditioned to be anxious about it, and passed it rather quickly. But, on the way back, I decided to face my fear, and just drive through there again. I wanted to see if the house was really there, if I had just had a weird reaction to nothing and harbored all this anxiety for all these years for no reason. So, I bravely exited the highway, and knew exactly how to get straight to it. It was there. Same house. Fighting my anxiety, I got out of the car and took a picture.

I was relieved that in the 20 years since I last saw it, the edge of the backyard was overgrown with bamboo, and I couldn't see through it. THIS is the house! I simply couldn't get away fast enough! There's something very bad there, but I have no idea what. Now, I'm curious to know what happened there. I can't explain any of it.

Is it really that simple?

I came across this little quote, and continue to ponder the idea. Is it really that simple? 

The first part involves finding what it is that makes you happy . . . When I was younger, I knew what made me happy. Didn't we all? But, as I've grown older, the idea of  "what it is that makes me happy" has become ever so complicated. This is a multi-faceted idea. There is no single "what it is." I can think of some "things" which have always made me happy: anything connected to the beauty of space and astronomy, reading, music, movies, cooking, beautiful things, nice smells, steak, chocolate, wine, sleep, a warm hug, a cozy bed, studying history, Christmas lights, cuddly cats, cool air, the ocean, etc. Then there are things I "do" which make me happy: teaching, comforting, listening, helping, etc. So, finding out "what makes you happy" is like an onion. I continue to discover what makes me happy. Not to the heart of that onion yet.

The second part is the toughest though . . . find WHO makes you happy. Lots of "whos" make me happy. I have amazing friends, a loving family, etc., but I know that's not what is meant here. So really, the whole process of finding who makes you happy is overwhelming, isn't it? The idea that there is one person out there for each of us is just too much to think about. Is there really one for each of us??? Perhaps we aren't supposed to have one? What if we fight our instinct and let that one go by? Why do we make so many mistakes in choosing that one? Is the problem that I'm not supposed to choose, but wait till he falls in my lap?   I simply can't bring myself to really deliberately search. I guess I do want him to just fall in my lap. Lol. Well, there's realism for ya! 

I don't know. Finding the who is not something I dwell on. It would be wonderful, and I think he will come along before I'm down to my last year or two. In fact, according to an astrologer friend of mine, the ages of 50-52 are going to be amazing for me in this regard, especially if I'm in North Carolina or the coast of the Carolinas. Maybe she's right! Who knows?! I guess the point is that while the quote above is true, I believe, it's actually a very complicated thing to achieve. Life . . . it's complicated.

Now, off to start planning that trip to the Carolinas in a couple of years . . . . . 

Hands

When I gave birth to each of my boys, one of the first things I wanted to do was see those sweet little fingers and toes. There's nothing like tiny fingers wrapping around yours. As a child grows older, we continue to treasure the hand. As they learn to walk, we hold on to the little hands to add support. Later, everywhere you go, you give the standard line, "Hold my hand while we cross the street, etc." I knew, as I felt that soft but firm grip, my children trusted me.

When Asa was only about 4 years old, he would draw the most intricate pictures of skeletons. He was absolutely fascinated by them! He drew every joint, every rib, and paid particular interest to the phalanges. He even learned the word phalanges, and loved saying it. He would say, "Mama, tickle me with the phalanges!" and then he'd wiggle his chubby little fingers for emphasis. I naturally followed that with full compliance. I was amazed by what he was able to create with those little fingers and hands. 

I don't know about anyone else, but when my kids reached the age where they no longer needed to hold my hand to walk across the street or through a parking lot, or just simply walked up and took my hand to show me something of great importance, I was sad. I was proud that they felt independent, but I missed them needing my hand. One of the first stages of letting go. 

I used to watch the hands of my grandmother as she crocheted, did her needlepoint, or sewed intricate Barbie outfits for me and my sister. They could make anything she imagined. It's funny though, I don't remember her hands ever looking really young. Beautiful and talented as they were, they had worked hard through her life. They washed clothes in the bathtub. They sewed amazingly beautiful clothes for my aunt and my mom. They were able to make things look beautiful when she didn't have much to work with. They had loved on me when I was sad, and held my hand when I was scared. Her hands were art.

There have been times when I've been sad, or worried, or anxious, and someone has reached for my hand to offer comfort. There's nothing else like that really, is there? I also remember being touched by the hands of a man who loved me. That is a rare feeling for some of us, but priceless. My mom has the coldest hands on earth, but they mask the warmest heart. 

Lately, I'm especially grateful for the opportunities I have to hold Ethan's hands. Not many almost 17 year old boys will still let Mom hold their hands, but we see so little of each other, in the current situation, that he and I both seem to take comfort in it. When I hold his hand, it is still the hand of the little boy who would grab mine and beg me to come sit down and read to him. They are tough, but vulnerable hands. They are growing into man hands, but they are still my little boys'. 

Our hands are of amazing value. They give, and they receive. They hold talent, love, creation, animation, etc, and they hold each other. They fascinate me. The pain in the hands of Christ on the crucifix. How must Mary have felt watching the hands of her child bleed and shake, knowing they were once the hands she held and kissed? I cannot imagine. I see hands, and I see love, comfort, and creation.